Artistic License
by Adria
Summary: When she started painting him, there was one thing she quickly realized. Atobe Keigo did not know how to love things properly. Except maybe himself.


Titled: Artistic License

Author: Adria

Pairing: None

Warnings: None

Rating: G

Note: This is sort of an introspective piece – although I hope it will spark something within you. I wrote it in the spur of the moment, and I'm not sure how good it is. One-shot. Please review and tell me what you think.

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Artistic License:

Atobe Keigo, she decided one day, did not know how to love things properly. Except maybe himself.

She knew that he had a fondness for beautiful things. He had an incredibly discerning eye, able to find the beauty inside things, inside people who even felt themselves to be of no aesthetic worth. He had an appraising eye for the pieces he admired. He often expressed his appreciation in every subtle touch, in every little gesture he would spare, though he was a frugal person in manner and personality in general. He liked the unpredictable, the exciting, the provocative. He lusted for the chase, the competition, the heat of rivalry.

She never wondered then, how she could feel so ugly in his presence. An awkward, gawky, spineless rag doll, limp and without will. She could offer nothing but a steady devotion to a dream too lurid to be possible. She was a quiet constant by his side, dwelling in the shadows of his brilliance. Of course he would like beautiful things, for he himself was beautiful and it was likely that he loved himself most of all. Made hauntingly so in his aloofness, his aura seemed to exist only to mock, but never mingle with, the spirits of the unworthy commoners such as herself.

Often she watched him from behind the fence in the street tennis courts when there was no practice, and wondered what it would be like to capture him in a bottle and keep it for herself. His beauty was otherworldly, unfit for earthly existence.

Otherworldly, because she knew that he didn't know how to truly love things properly. As smooth and charming as he was, he didn't know how to keep things close to him, didn't know how to open doors and let them in. Under a veneer of sheer and incomparable vanity, he was untouchable. A searing flame too hot to draw too near, his presence burned brightly with the brilliance of his demeanor. But inside, he was cold and frigid, like pack ice.

But, she pondered while watching his graceful movements on the court, what had made him so. Could it be possible that those eyes never beheld any warmth in them? Pity, she thought, cupping her hand on her chin, they were extremely gorgeous eyes.

She always painted them warm, anyway. She painted them the way she imagined them to be if they ever were capable of melting and loving. With a quick stroke on the canvas, she softened the corners slightly, just to imagine what he would look like, pinning that gaze on her. She frowned, scrutinizing her work carefully. It was recognizably still Atobe Keigo, but something was wrong. Dreadfully wrong, and out of place.

"Surely you realize that your painting does not do ore-sama justice, Ryuzaki?"

Her neck felt tingly under his eyes, and she closed them for a split second as the liquid metal of his unmistakable voice dripped down her back. But she is not startled. It is not the first time she has been criticized by him. She flushed out of old habit (she knew now that it was not a disease, but a genetic reaction – she got it checked), but did not bother to deign a response. And she did not look up, knowing it would irk him slightly. Or at least, she hoped it would. Maybe, if she closed her eyes long enough, he would go away. His cold eyes maybe would go stare elsewhere.

"Maybe it would help if I modeled for you. Then you will not portray ore-sama in such a shameful and disgraceful way."

She wanted to say something scornful, or at least something sarcastic but before she could even think of some appropriate words he had already sat down in the bench in front of her. He stared loftily at her, nonchalant…haughty. His hands were aristocratically folded in the back of his head, and he leaned casually away from her. His hair was perfectly wavy, and she supposed that there would never be anything less than perfect to be worthy of Atobe Keigo.

She stared almost dumbly at him, her eyes glancing back and forth between his flawless face and the paint-filled canvas in her lap. Up, down. Up, down. She flickered her eyes, stealing this opportunity to look into his beautiful face, knowing that everything she could ever hope to see on the surface were things she already knew. Things that were ingrained into her memory, things that she could see in her mind's eye with needing its physical presence.

Because one didn't just paint a subject without embodying their spirit, soul, and their emotions…that had been why she had chosen Atobe Keigo. Maybe to dig in deeper, to find something no one else had ever found. Like a spelunker, excavating dug-up caves for the fabled mother lode. She had tried in vain for the past few months, but found nothing but more and more mazes, with her footsteps and journey becoming a loop going nowhere, traced and retraced. Over and over again.

His eyes were like icy fire. Cold enough to burn.

She knew what was wrong with her painting, but she didn't want to change it. She stubbornly sat and stared at her painting, unmoving. Perhaps he would become annoyed with her obstinacy and leave her in peace.

"Shall ore-sama point out all of your shortcomings?" He raises one eyebrow, arching it delicately. Perfection.

She knew what he wanted. He was perfect, and demanded nothing less of others. But he was winning the battle of wills and she gave in eventually. She picked up her brush again, and put the ice back in his orbs. Somehow, her heart pained her to do this.

Technique wise, it had been her finest work yet, perhaps due of her devotion to such a beautiful subject. But she had capture nothing new, nothing phenomenal, nothing special. It was just paint on a canvas, cold and unfeeling. Like him.

Feeling uncommonly angry, she chucked the finished, doomed portrait at his feet, and stalked away angrily.

Next time, she decided, she would paint him the way she wanted him to be. She would paint him until she got it right, no matter how many afternoons it would take her. Because while he appreciated beauty, and while he idolized himself, she knew that he didn't know how to love things properly. And she would mar his perfection, make him human somehow. She vowed to reveal the true Atobe Keigo, until even he could not argue.

Stopping suddenly, she realized a certain irony she had overlooked.

On the other side of town, one Atobe Keigo, possessor of the eyes of ice, flipped his portrait on the back and discovered a small etching in charcoal inside the canvas.

In print, it simply read "Artistic License."

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Author's Note: I love feedback. Please, tell me what you think!


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